


Jungle

by icingmice



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Oneshot, Sexual Reference, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icingmice/pseuds/icingmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wonwoo doesn’t have fun at a party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> I started this months ago but only just finished it? why??  
> also, why is this seungcheol/wonwoo? your guess is as good as mine

Paralysed in the crowd by a feeling of crippling displacement, his eyes fixate on the entrées. He’s transfixed by the neon glisten of the salmon caviar and the alien-green roe, the soy-licked slivers of eel and sashimi. The mackerel’s rainbow oilslick-shiny skin. He salivates. He’s very out of place, but still prone to Pavlovian reactions; he’s only animal.

So he doesn’t see Seungcheol catch him again from across the room and make his way over, a hot hand grabbing his forearm just below the rolled shirtsleeves. It’s way too hot for a jacket.

Wonwoo tries to swallow the saliva in his mouth without coughing, but his traitorous oesophagus fails him. Seungcheol whisper-shouts in his ear as he’s hacking up a lung onto the Ancient-Grecian tiled floor.

“Let’s get you out, it’s too hot in here, isn’t it?” And steers him out with one warm hand still gripped around his bony arm and the other tight on the back of his neck. Wonwoo feels as if he’s wading through jungle, but he doesn’t have to think about manoeuvring the weird palm fronds and extravagant headdresses while Seungcheol’s pushing him ever forwards, bearing down and (possibly?) pressing the warm line of his body into Wonwoo’s dorsal: he’s trying not to think about it because he’s hot under the collar, a little bit shivery and still fucking salivating. 

No, he’s not drugged, but he guesses it’s all chemical all the same.

By the time they’re out in the cool and Wonwoo’s pushed up against a cold brick wall, he’s recouped the presence of mind to assume a studiously blank expression. Which doesn’t work anyway because Seungcheol always knows how he feels. So he feels his way right up into his headspace, and murmurs: “Sorry, Wonwoo-yah. I kinda knew it wasn’t gonna be your thing, so I shouldn’t have left you on your own. I was kinda hoping you would have fun… but I’m sorry…,” Which is all very well, but he sure as hell doesn’t sound sorry. Also he’s nosing up Wonwoo’s neck, and pressing fingers into the beating pulse of his arm. 

It hurts a little how much he wants.

He says, “It’s okay,”, whether in his mind or just quietly he can’t tell, so he just says it again to make sure, but Seungcheol doesn’t give him any sign of recognition, rather he’s sucking the beginnings of something awful into Wonwoo’s clavicle. He knows this because his body is littered with them, Rorschach blots the fine maroon of raw tuna, tuna that’s been teethed upon by an overzealous dog. And still, every time, Wonwoo can’t help but lean into it, flex his jugular towards Seungcheol’s mouth.

His own lips are parted, panting steam into the cold night atmosphere, and his hands are clenched on the back of Seungcheol’s head, on the back of his leather jacket.

Seungcheol’s hand cradles the side of Wonwoo's face, the thumb tilting his jawline upwards, and laves his tongue into the cleft between his two clavicles. It’s cold, but his skin is clammy and fevered. He whispers Seungcheol’s name involuntarily, and that sends a thrill through Seungcheol’s spine. More than expensive cocktails or indoor jungles or seafood entrées. He’s glad they left the party.

When he slips a hand under the waistband of Wonwoo’s trousers, Wonwoo’s hips buck and he makes this sudden, choked-up sound. “Please,” He says quietly, and nudges his face against Seungcheol’s.

“Here?” Seungcheol asks with a smirk. He palms the front of Wonwoo’s boxers, and Wonwoo pushes against him.

“Not here,” he gasps out. “Can we go back to yours?”

Seungcheol hums in assent and hails a taxi with an arm slung around Wonwoo’s broader shoulders. Wonwoo hopes the taxi driver won’t notice the way the icy vapour of their heavy breathing condenses in the cool air, or the bite marks on his neck, and that the car moves fast.


End file.
